So I decide to relax.
Yes, decide. For me, relaxing is something I have to decide to do, not a condition I was born with. I got the fidget gene, not the deep breath gene.
Facebook had already been invited to dinner in my dating world so I couldn't exactly ask it to leave the table now. That would be self-imposed social isolation. It was a lifeline. When Scott broke up with me - correction - when Scott neglected to break up with me and flew the coop without a signal from the tower - it was what connected me to people. The news spread fast and my friends rallied. I can't imagine how I would have managed without the friendship - and I can't imagine how long it would have taken for word to spread that I 'd needed them. Calls? Letters? It would have taken months of whispering down the lane. With Facebook it took an instant.
I thought to send and inbox message to Zuckerburg to tell him. It's a better story than that Tweet that prevented a suicide. All I had to do was change the tenor of my posts and the people that mattered moved in close to make sure I was okay. And moved in closer when they realized I was anything but okay.
So I need to relax and let Facebook be what it is supposed to be - a way to connect and stay connected. A way to feel the intimacy of friendship when miles and years separate you from one another. A way to watch your friends' children grow up and reach milestones when you've never actually experienced the joy of having met them.
It is not a tool to be used to bully. It is not a tool to be used to exclude. It is not a tool to be used to spy and investigate and confront and interfere.
And it is not a mirror of what is really happening between two people. It is a fun house mirror, and an illusion.
What matters is what is really happening. But that is sometimes hard to tell - with all the interference from the other guest at the table.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Night Stalker
And the last of the article's little pearls of wisdom: Facebook stalking. As in "don't do it." We all do it to some degree and it is impossible to stop once you start.
I sat and looked at the words almost breathless with self-loathing. Everyone who cyberstalks thinks no one knows they do it. But evidently everyone does.
I would never go so far as to page through someone's Facebook profile and look for women I could not identify. But there is a little bit of Harriet the Spy in all of us.
I have been the victim myself:
J. - even without Facebook he cyberstalked. He examined my phone records and even called a few unfamiliar numbers I'd dialed when out of town. And completely denied having done so, even when faced with the fact that in an interesting twist of fate, I could see his phone records and tell with tremendous certainty that he'd dialed the numbers in question and when. And he acted like there was no egg to be found on his face at all when I told him the first was Pat's new cell number and the second was my secretary. All he could say was, "I don't even know your secretary." Exactly. Pinhead.
And my crazy friend that is no longer my friend. She used Facebook strictly to dig for intel on people. Who was zooming whom. What two people were after the same man and who was winning. Who was getting cozy with whom, cyberistically speaking. If she could not scrounge up enough detail herself, she would ask other people to dig for information who would then message me on Facebook asking questions as concerned friends. Not anymore.
And I have to say, I noticed when Facebook would announce some cute blond who'd aged reasonably well had become friends with Scott. I asked about one once, in the Harley dealership. He said she was a friend's friend or wife or something and that he had no idea why she'd friended him. I decided to keep an eye on traffic between them. But also thought that maybe she was spying on her own husband and poking holes in his stories of "Going for beers with Scott" by trying to find times when Scott was out on the waverunner with me when he was purportedly having beers with her hubby. Who knows?
And I have done the stalking myself.
I will admit that I'd look to see when Craig was online and who he was commenting on and who was commenting on his posts. Some girls were downright possessive and wrote posts that were obviously intended to suggest ownership...and "hands off" to readers. In response I would tend to post some of my own, just vague enough with enough said and unsaid to suggest that we had a secret understanding about something. I hoped the stalkers were taking note.
And it all seems crazy.
And maybe that is why the guy who wrote the article may have a point.
I sat and looked at the words almost breathless with self-loathing. Everyone who cyberstalks thinks no one knows they do it. But evidently everyone does.
I would never go so far as to page through someone's Facebook profile and look for women I could not identify. But there is a little bit of Harriet the Spy in all of us.
I have been the victim myself:
J. - even without Facebook he cyberstalked. He examined my phone records and even called a few unfamiliar numbers I'd dialed when out of town. And completely denied having done so, even when faced with the fact that in an interesting twist of fate, I could see his phone records and tell with tremendous certainty that he'd dialed the numbers in question and when. And he acted like there was no egg to be found on his face at all when I told him the first was Pat's new cell number and the second was my secretary. All he could say was, "I don't even know your secretary." Exactly. Pinhead.
And my crazy friend that is no longer my friend. She used Facebook strictly to dig for intel on people. Who was zooming whom. What two people were after the same man and who was winning. Who was getting cozy with whom, cyberistically speaking. If she could not scrounge up enough detail herself, she would ask other people to dig for information who would then message me on Facebook asking questions as concerned friends. Not anymore.
And I have to say, I noticed when Facebook would announce some cute blond who'd aged reasonably well had become friends with Scott. I asked about one once, in the Harley dealership. He said she was a friend's friend or wife or something and that he had no idea why she'd friended him. I decided to keep an eye on traffic between them. But also thought that maybe she was spying on her own husband and poking holes in his stories of "Going for beers with Scott" by trying to find times when Scott was out on the waverunner with me when he was purportedly having beers with her hubby. Who knows?
And I have done the stalking myself.
I will admit that I'd look to see when Craig was online and who he was commenting on and who was commenting on his posts. Some girls were downright possessive and wrote posts that were obviously intended to suggest ownership...and "hands off" to readers. In response I would tend to post some of my own, just vague enough with enough said and unsaid to suggest that we had a secret understanding about something. I hoped the stalkers were taking note.
And it all seems crazy.
And maybe that is why the guy who wrote the article may have a point.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Denial By Denying
Facebook is a philanderer's dream. (OK the posts last week from some anonymous train passenger who'd lost her patience with the philandering co-passenger who was evidently rambling endlessly about cheating on his unsuspecting, unoffending wife, whose intellect he described most unflatteringly, which bore his secretively photographed, cheesy face with its muscle-head demeanor, and which outed him as a loud-mouthed, sleazy braggadocio, to the entire Facebook community, notwithstanding.)
Certain privacy settings allow you to be notified by email if you are tagged in a post or a picture. It allow you to view the post of the picture and accept (so all your friends can see it) or not (and only the post-er's friends will see - be careful when you have friends in common...)
Scott has his settings set to be asked. Primarily because his young daughters had become accustomed to tagging him in posts that were hilarious but made him look like an ass.
"LOLing with my Dad at fat people making their 10th trip to the buffet at Szechuan Luau."
Or
"Someone farted" accompanied by a picture of him and one of the dogs, both making a face, and the culprit not distinguished.
And rather than going onto FB and reviewing the posts all the live long day, he'd just deny them. Let their friends laugh. No harm, no foul. He'd routinely deny all the posts and photos, except the one I'd posted with pictures of him night surfing or on his Harley, because they made him look cool. Probably really cool to the GED certificate holder from UPS.
So if you were, say, the bench-pressing Amazon from the NFL, or the minimum wage earning divorcee Drill Team Queen, then you'd have no idea that I was in Scott's life...at least lately. At least since the Drill Team girl called him on my being ever-present on his page.
I guess she'd taught him a lesson in more than one way. If you want to pretend to be single and available on Facebook, you need to appear to be single and available. You can't look married and expect to score. Duh.
But alas, I didn't learn this lesson until very late in the game. My cousin had pointed it out to me. She'd thought it was an indication that something had changed. Something had gone wrong.
And they had. I just couldn't see it from my Facebook page.
Certain privacy settings allow you to be notified by email if you are tagged in a post or a picture. It allow you to view the post of the picture and accept (so all your friends can see it) or not (and only the post-er's friends will see - be careful when you have friends in common...)
Scott has his settings set to be asked. Primarily because his young daughters had become accustomed to tagging him in posts that were hilarious but made him look like an ass.
"LOLing with my Dad at fat people making their 10th trip to the buffet at Szechuan Luau."
Or
"Someone farted" accompanied by a picture of him and one of the dogs, both making a face, and the culprit not distinguished.
And rather than going onto FB and reviewing the posts all the live long day, he'd just deny them. Let their friends laugh. No harm, no foul. He'd routinely deny all the posts and photos, except the one I'd posted with pictures of him night surfing or on his Harley, because they made him look cool. Probably really cool to the GED certificate holder from UPS.
So if you were, say, the bench-pressing Amazon from the NFL, or the minimum wage earning divorcee Drill Team Queen, then you'd have no idea that I was in Scott's life...at least lately. At least since the Drill Team girl called him on my being ever-present on his page.
I guess she'd taught him a lesson in more than one way. If you want to pretend to be single and available on Facebook, you need to appear to be single and available. You can't look married and expect to score. Duh.
But alas, I didn't learn this lesson until very late in the game. My cousin had pointed it out to me. She'd thought it was an indication that something had changed. Something had gone wrong.
And they had. I just couldn't see it from my Facebook page.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Signs Signs Everywhere A Sign
So, getting back to the helpful article about what we do that makes our men so crazy and that they go to bed each night praying on their hands and knees that we'd stop doing, yes, Facebook was like a third guest at the table set for two. There is what goes on between the two of you, and then there is the Facebook image of what goes on between the two of you.
And that can be manipulated.
And it was. In this case and in others. More on that below, But for now, back to the article.
Aside from us insisting that our men tell the world of Facebook formally that we are in a relationship (which sounds ridiculous even as I write it) we also expect validation on Facebook.
And I am gasping in horror.
I do this. I know I do.
I am actually miffed when Craig likes some woman's post or comments on her picture and does not give me the same props when I do similarly.
I wonder about the intent and I wonder about what impression it has made.
Is he giving the other girl Facebook attention in the same way he did with me way back when we were first flirting? Is he not remarking on my post because he does not want anyone to think he's interested in me? (since it tends to get all interested parties" tongues wagging) Or is it that he doesn't have to use FB to flirt with me, he can do that directly? Or is it that he's thinking "Why," as the article suggests, "waste the time commenting when he can comment when we meet for dinner?" Is he not commenting because he's sending a subtle message that I am not as important anymore? Is he flirting with someone else and therefore can't fawn all over my profile picture change or make a witty comment on the link I post?
Crazy I know. It used to be that you just had to snub someone in the school corridor or not call them for a date to blow them off. Now it is more complicated. There are more signals to look for and to miss.
And I may be especially paranoid about this because of Scott.
Late in the game I discovered something. He had stopped going on Facebook at all in the wake of our little SNAFU with the The Refrigerator Perry's twin sister, the Drill Team floozy and the UPS bimbo. He told me he had no interest in it. He'd found what he wanted on Facebook when he'd found me. No other connections were important. He did not want to be found by anyone else either. He kept the account to keep an eye on the social media lives of his teenaged daughters.
But that wasn't exactly a good thing.
People who were my FB friends could see that I had tagged him in all manner of situations. Graduation, wave running, happy houring, brunching on the water, buying fudge on the Boardwalk.
But if you were his friend and not mine, his absence from Facebook meant something else. It meant that I was absent.
I was absent from his life on Facebook.
And that can be manipulated.
And it was. In this case and in others. More on that below, But for now, back to the article.
Aside from us insisting that our men tell the world of Facebook formally that we are in a relationship (which sounds ridiculous even as I write it) we also expect validation on Facebook.
And I am gasping in horror.
I do this. I know I do.
I am actually miffed when Craig likes some woman's post or comments on her picture and does not give me the same props when I do similarly.
I wonder about the intent and I wonder about what impression it has made.
Is he giving the other girl Facebook attention in the same way he did with me way back when we were first flirting? Is he not remarking on my post because he does not want anyone to think he's interested in me? (since it tends to get all interested parties" tongues wagging) Or is it that he doesn't have to use FB to flirt with me, he can do that directly? Or is it that he's thinking "Why," as the article suggests, "waste the time commenting when he can comment when we meet for dinner?" Is he not commenting because he's sending a subtle message that I am not as important anymore? Is he flirting with someone else and therefore can't fawn all over my profile picture change or make a witty comment on the link I post?
Crazy I know. It used to be that you just had to snub someone in the school corridor or not call them for a date to blow them off. Now it is more complicated. There are more signals to look for and to miss.
And I may be especially paranoid about this because of Scott.
Late in the game I discovered something. He had stopped going on Facebook at all in the wake of our little SNAFU with the The Refrigerator Perry's twin sister, the Drill Team floozy and the UPS bimbo. He told me he had no interest in it. He'd found what he wanted on Facebook when he'd found me. No other connections were important. He did not want to be found by anyone else either. He kept the account to keep an eye on the social media lives of his teenaged daughters.
But that wasn't exactly a good thing.
People who were my FB friends could see that I had tagged him in all manner of situations. Graduation, wave running, happy houring, brunching on the water, buying fudge on the Boardwalk.
But if you were his friend and not mine, his absence from Facebook meant something else. It meant that I was absent.
I was absent from his life on Facebook.
Monday, June 24, 2013
What's the Status?
Throughout the morning and the day, we talked about the details. The UPS Girl for instance. I needed to have that explained.
He told me she was young enough to be his daughter.
NOT. COMFORTING.
I tell him she is too hard looking and low budget to be his daughter. I tell him I am baffled that he would be talking to her while he was out with me and even more perplexed that he would be pretending to be doing some fun extreme sports bullshit activity instead of admitting that he, a man of 50, was having a reasonably fun evening out with the love of his life.
It's not like I had dragged him off to a charity ball in a tuxedo to drink bad champagne and hobnob with strangers. We had been at a sports bar having beer and fun food and watching ice hockey. Most men would be thrilled that their partner would go along with them instead of hiding their car keys so they had to stay at home and watch Thirtysomething reruns with them. Yawn.
Why did he contact her and why did he pretend? Why is he talking to her at all?
He cuts to the chase. Tells me he has not been with any of these women.
I tell him it's good to hear that because if he had not clearly and definitively said so, I would assume otherwise and he could consider me a bitter memory because I'd run so far so fast it would make his head swim. It is kind of fun to say these words calmly and coolly and dispassionately. Just stating the facts.
Infidelity = A future of solitude. And a long recovery process from the deep facial bruising.
And over the next few days I insist on talking about a few more troubling details. I ask for explanations. He is loathe to explain.
That's because there is no reasonable explanation for your conduct, asswipe. Of course you don't want to have a chat about your scumbag behavior! Too effin' bad! Explain or goodbye. A or B? Door #1 or Door #2? There isn't a third choice!
But by the Thursday we've decided we want to see each other on the weekend, even if everything is not hunky dory. But he's orchestrated it so he's in charge. He is going to come to my house instead of me to his (which he couches as a convenience to me, and a change of pace) but says he has done all the talking he wants to do about The Topic and does not want to talk about it all weekend. Weekends are for decompressing and having fun. Not for working on things. (Oh OK. I'll refrain from any further confrontational questions until you've clocked in again on Monday. Then be prepared to sweat. Deal.)
And really all this is is leveraging. If I came to his house and began a 48 hour inquisition, he'd have to literally make me leave (and imagine the slapstick that would be) to get me to stop. If he comes to my house and I break out the interrogation lamp, he jumps into the car and loses me in the rear view mirror. Very tricky.
But by the end of the weekend, through very carefully planned conversation, we have worked through all the feelings, if not through all the episodes.
As we say goodbye I whisper in his ear that I love him very much and he says that he does too. And I tell him if he ever has doubts or his feelings change, he needs to just tell me. I know things change. That's how we all got divorced. I'd be sad but I'd survive and I'd rather leave a relationship where I am not loved than stay in something that is half a relationship. I'd give him the same courtesy.
He says "OK." But somewhere deep inside, I know it is not ever really going to be OK. Once something like this has happened, there is always the possibility that it will happen again. And that will nag at me until there is a ring on my hand.
Or a status change on Facebook, the be honest.
He told me she was young enough to be his daughter.
NOT. COMFORTING.
I tell him she is too hard looking and low budget to be his daughter. I tell him I am baffled that he would be talking to her while he was out with me and even more perplexed that he would be pretending to be doing some fun extreme sports bullshit activity instead of admitting that he, a man of 50, was having a reasonably fun evening out with the love of his life.
It's not like I had dragged him off to a charity ball in a tuxedo to drink bad champagne and hobnob with strangers. We had been at a sports bar having beer and fun food and watching ice hockey. Most men would be thrilled that their partner would go along with them instead of hiding their car keys so they had to stay at home and watch Thirtysomething reruns with them. Yawn.
Why did he contact her and why did he pretend? Why is he talking to her at all?
He cuts to the chase. Tells me he has not been with any of these women.
I tell him it's good to hear that because if he had not clearly and definitively said so, I would assume otherwise and he could consider me a bitter memory because I'd run so far so fast it would make his head swim. It is kind of fun to say these words calmly and coolly and dispassionately. Just stating the facts.
Infidelity = A future of solitude. And a long recovery process from the deep facial bruising.
And over the next few days I insist on talking about a few more troubling details. I ask for explanations. He is loathe to explain.
That's because there is no reasonable explanation for your conduct, asswipe. Of course you don't want to have a chat about your scumbag behavior! Too effin' bad! Explain or goodbye. A or B? Door #1 or Door #2? There isn't a third choice!
But by the Thursday we've decided we want to see each other on the weekend, even if everything is not hunky dory. But he's orchestrated it so he's in charge. He is going to come to my house instead of me to his (which he couches as a convenience to me, and a change of pace) but says he has done all the talking he wants to do about The Topic and does not want to talk about it all weekend. Weekends are for decompressing and having fun. Not for working on things. (Oh OK. I'll refrain from any further confrontational questions until you've clocked in again on Monday. Then be prepared to sweat. Deal.)
And really all this is is leveraging. If I came to his house and began a 48 hour inquisition, he'd have to literally make me leave (and imagine the slapstick that would be) to get me to stop. If he comes to my house and I break out the interrogation lamp, he jumps into the car and loses me in the rear view mirror. Very tricky.
But by the end of the weekend, through very carefully planned conversation, we have worked through all the feelings, if not through all the episodes.
As we say goodbye I whisper in his ear that I love him very much and he says that he does too. And I tell him if he ever has doubts or his feelings change, he needs to just tell me. I know things change. That's how we all got divorced. I'd be sad but I'd survive and I'd rather leave a relationship where I am not loved than stay in something that is half a relationship. I'd give him the same courtesy.
He says "OK." But somewhere deep inside, I know it is not ever really going to be OK. Once something like this has happened, there is always the possibility that it will happen again. And that will nag at me until there is a ring on my hand.
Or a status change on Facebook, the be honest.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Let's Dance
I frost him that night.
He'd not answered the text about the dinner plans, so I send a snarky text about it telling him to forget it.
He got the message - the text and the underscoring. Sensed that I was pissed. Called to feel me out. I was short and not very sweet.
And then I ignored him for the rest of the night. No replies to texts. No phone calls.
But it's not like he called me either. He was probably too busy paging through his high school yearbook looking up cute underclassmen that he never had a chance to bag because he was always running back to that pock faced bleach blond who played the clarinet or the flute or some dainty little piss ant thing with us in the band.
But the next morning, after I had barely slept and after what little sleep I had gotten had been routinely punctuated with horrifying dreams of being in a bar stark naked or showing up at a party and having all my teeth fall out, we talked on the phone. From my kitchen, not while I was driving as I normally would. I needed to focus. And focus my anger. And did not want to give him the satisfaction of prematurely ending the conversation because I've pranged my SUV into a bridge piling and careened into the river.
I confronted him with what I knew and a little bit about how I knew it. But not all the details. Some of them. Enough to make him think I know everything and enough to be able to tell if he began to lie. And like a man, he admits to more. Not worse, just more. More contacts, more conversations. I am physically sick.
But he maintains that he has done nothing wrong. His intentions were not what I think they were. He reminds me that he told me he had friended the Drill Team Chippy and the Heisman Trophy Winner. I am making something out of nothing. I am basing everything on Facebook (sound familiar?)
And he had told me about Big Tits and Broad Shoulders. While we'd been in Florida celebrating his 50th birthday. I had been confident and secure when he'd told me. Happy that he could tell me. I was not freaking out that he would talk to an old flame or an old friend. God knows I have my old flames and my old friends I talk with! Scads of them.
But what he'd not told me were the circumstances. He'd not told me he'd pursued them. He'd not told me his slippery underhanded approach to each of them. He'd not told me because it would have made a difference.
But he'd told me so he could some day say he had under exactly these circumstances, and perhaps to relieve himself of the guilt he'd been feeling about it as we lay on the sand in paradise enjoying a beautiful trip together. A trip I'd planned to celebrate HIM.
And now there was nothing left to do but tap dance. And he'd better warm up first.
He'd not answered the text about the dinner plans, so I send a snarky text about it telling him to forget it.
He got the message - the text and the underscoring. Sensed that I was pissed. Called to feel me out. I was short and not very sweet.
And then I ignored him for the rest of the night. No replies to texts. No phone calls.
But it's not like he called me either. He was probably too busy paging through his high school yearbook looking up cute underclassmen that he never had a chance to bag because he was always running back to that pock faced bleach blond who played the clarinet or the flute or some dainty little piss ant thing with us in the band.
But the next morning, after I had barely slept and after what little sleep I had gotten had been routinely punctuated with horrifying dreams of being in a bar stark naked or showing up at a party and having all my teeth fall out, we talked on the phone. From my kitchen, not while I was driving as I normally would. I needed to focus. And focus my anger. And did not want to give him the satisfaction of prematurely ending the conversation because I've pranged my SUV into a bridge piling and careened into the river.
I confronted him with what I knew and a little bit about how I knew it. But not all the details. Some of them. Enough to make him think I know everything and enough to be able to tell if he began to lie. And like a man, he admits to more. Not worse, just more. More contacts, more conversations. I am physically sick.
But he maintains that he has done nothing wrong. His intentions were not what I think they were. He reminds me that he told me he had friended the Drill Team Chippy and the Heisman Trophy Winner. I am making something out of nothing. I am basing everything on Facebook (sound familiar?)
And he had told me about Big Tits and Broad Shoulders. While we'd been in Florida celebrating his 50th birthday. I had been confident and secure when he'd told me. Happy that he could tell me. I was not freaking out that he would talk to an old flame or an old friend. God knows I have my old flames and my old friends I talk with! Scads of them.
But what he'd not told me were the circumstances. He'd not told me he'd pursued them. He'd not told me his slippery underhanded approach to each of them. He'd not told me because it would have made a difference.
But he'd told me so he could some day say he had under exactly these circumstances, and perhaps to relieve himself of the guilt he'd been feeling about it as we lay on the sand in paradise enjoying a beautiful trip together. A trip I'd planned to celebrate HIM.
And now there was nothing left to do but tap dance. And he'd better warm up first.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Calling It Like It Is
So a member of the Drill Team. Evidently quite a memorable member of the Drill Team.
There weren't recent messages, but there were a few.
And they had begun a few months before. Right around our first anniversary. The timing was just cruel. He'd planned a nice evening out for us. I had picked just the right thing to wear. Spent time on my hair and my makeup and my nails. And he'd spent time contacting chippies from my graduating class who plateaued about a week after graduation.
The initial contact was fairly benign, but she'd obviously read into his contact the way I imagine he hoped she would.
And being a girl, she dug around on his Facebook page.
And there it was. She asked him point blank if I was the same person as the person with the same name who went to high school with us.
He tap danced. Admitted only that I was she and she was me. Nothing more.
"Is she your girlfriend?"
To which he replied, to my everlasting horror, "Ha ha! She lives like 90 miles away!"
Denied me. Did not own me. Unclaimed freight. He wanted her to believe he was free to date his pants off. And I was thinking he might just be unleashed to do so in about 10 minutes.
But she was smarter than he was and called him on it.
"Well she's all over your Facebook page and is always with you and calls your house her home away from home so it looks like she must be."
And he must have slunk off with his tail between his legs at that point because not only was he looking like a sleazy Facebook stalker, he was also looking like a philandering pig who lies to his partner.
His partner who was having vivid daydreams about raking her fingernails down his pretty face at the moment.
There weren't recent messages, but there were a few.
And they had begun a few months before. Right around our first anniversary. The timing was just cruel. He'd planned a nice evening out for us. I had picked just the right thing to wear. Spent time on my hair and my makeup and my nails. And he'd spent time contacting chippies from my graduating class who plateaued about a week after graduation.
The initial contact was fairly benign, but she'd obviously read into his contact the way I imagine he hoped she would.
And being a girl, she dug around on his Facebook page.
And there it was. She asked him point blank if I was the same person as the person with the same name who went to high school with us.
He tap danced. Admitted only that I was she and she was me. Nothing more.
"Is she your girlfriend?"
To which he replied, to my everlasting horror, "Ha ha! She lives like 90 miles away!"
Denied me. Did not own me. Unclaimed freight. He wanted her to believe he was free to date his pants off. And I was thinking he might just be unleashed to do so in about 10 minutes.
But she was smarter than he was and called him on it.
"Well she's all over your Facebook page and is always with you and calls your house her home away from home so it looks like she must be."
And he must have slunk off with his tail between his legs at that point because not only was he looking like a sleazy Facebook stalker, he was also looking like a philandering pig who lies to his partner.
His partner who was having vivid daydreams about raking her fingernails down his pretty face at the moment.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Reading Between the Lines
I realize I am shaking as I do this. The game is on the line. God only knows what I'll find and I am dreading that I will find a lot that I don't like.
I open the damn iPad and go onto Facebook. I can not believe how easy this is. Our mothers had to wait for their men to take a shower and then go through their pants pockets and wallets looking for receipts for dinners that they had not been invited to or notes scribbled on hotel stationary or business cards with private numbers scrawled on the back in swirly girly writing. Maybe a telltale earring in a pocket that had somehow remained on the seat of the car and had to be dealt with. All I have to do is touch a screen. What a game changer.
So I look at each string of messages. Carefully. Thoroughly. Even the ones from the guys. God knows when I will find some confessional note about two-timing me with the boss's daughter.
Most of it is only modestly troubling.
I could have lived without the sappy notes between the NFL chick. Not really a threat because she lives on the other coast, but I can see that he reached out to her first. And with a message intended to stir up so me warm memories. Very clever.
But the UPS chippy who looked like 10 miles of bad road was an interesting exchange. He'd friended her after having bumped into her on her delivery route making a delivery to a house where he was replacing sprinkler heads. (This crap doesn't happen to white collar people, ya know.)
Not something I would have wanted to see but nothing too flirtatious. Until the second to the last entry, the last entry having been sent that morning. Evidently, (thank God these things are time and date stamped) while I was out with Scott the night before, having a beer and some appetizers and watching hockey while our kids attended a movie next door, he sent her a message.
Probably while he was again, in the loo. And again, while I thought he was having a perfectly nice time with me. He seemed to be.
But he was off pretending to her that he was doing something else. Some dirt biking type activity. (God knows why she'd find that attractive.) But he was clearly pretending to a) be someone else and B) be with someone else. WHY????
The intrusive nut he'd said he'd unfriended was still nutty but not necessarily trying to ensnare him in her little web of crazy. She even asked about me. She asked if we were married.
And that is where it got nasty. In his reply.
He said something along the lines of "What???? No effin' way! Not a chance!"
Funny, since we'd already had that discussion and there was nothing "no effin' way" about the matter.
And way down at the bottom was the nail in the coffin of my trust.
Scrolling, scrolling scrolling all the way back to the beginning I found a string of messages with a girl I'd been on the Drill Team with.
And he'd again been the one to approach her. And it was not pretty.
I open the damn iPad and go onto Facebook. I can not believe how easy this is. Our mothers had to wait for their men to take a shower and then go through their pants pockets and wallets looking for receipts for dinners that they had not been invited to or notes scribbled on hotel stationary or business cards with private numbers scrawled on the back in swirly girly writing. Maybe a telltale earring in a pocket that had somehow remained on the seat of the car and had to be dealt with. All I have to do is touch a screen. What a game changer.
So I look at each string of messages. Carefully. Thoroughly. Even the ones from the guys. God knows when I will find some confessional note about two-timing me with the boss's daughter.
Most of it is only modestly troubling.
I could have lived without the sappy notes between the NFL chick. Not really a threat because she lives on the other coast, but I can see that he reached out to her first. And with a message intended to stir up so me warm memories. Very clever.
But the UPS chippy who looked like 10 miles of bad road was an interesting exchange. He'd friended her after having bumped into her on her delivery route making a delivery to a house where he was replacing sprinkler heads. (This crap doesn't happen to white collar people, ya know.)
Not something I would have wanted to see but nothing too flirtatious. Until the second to the last entry, the last entry having been sent that morning. Evidently, (thank God these things are time and date stamped) while I was out with Scott the night before, having a beer and some appetizers and watching hockey while our kids attended a movie next door, he sent her a message.
Probably while he was again, in the loo. And again, while I thought he was having a perfectly nice time with me. He seemed to be.
But he was off pretending to her that he was doing something else. Some dirt biking type activity. (God knows why she'd find that attractive.) But he was clearly pretending to a) be someone else and B) be with someone else. WHY????
The intrusive nut he'd said he'd unfriended was still nutty but not necessarily trying to ensnare him in her little web of crazy. She even asked about me. She asked if we were married.
And that is where it got nasty. In his reply.
He said something along the lines of "What???? No effin' way! Not a chance!"
Funny, since we'd already had that discussion and there was nothing "no effin' way" about the matter.
And way down at the bottom was the nail in the coffin of my trust.
Scrolling, scrolling scrolling all the way back to the beginning I found a string of messages with a girl I'd been on the Drill Team with.
And he'd again been the one to approach her. And it was not pretty.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Keeping Up Appearances
Chatting. Yes, he was chatting. Sitting, presumably on the throne and chatting. I wonder if they knew.
He was evidently chatting up all manner of people. No. Scratch that. All manner of women.
I panicked for a moment. I needed him to stop at once. Maybe if he knows I know? I get my phone and message him. "Howzitallgoinginthere?" Refraining of course from saying something more like "Finish your business and come out so I can lop off your dick with some kitchen shears, you sneaky little weasel." Very mature of me, I think.
He didn't answer, but promptly flushed and came out. Not looking any more guilty than when he'd gone in.
Obviously a sociopath.
Confront or don't confront? That is the question. And it's a doozy.
I decide not to confront. Yet.
Any lawyer will tell you to never ask a witness a question to which you don't already know the answer. No one needs a surprise when there is so much skin in the game. I needed to fill my arsenal with ammo. Factual ammo. So confronting will have to wait.
Later, after we've had breakfast and coffee and he's tweaked the lock on my porch door like he'd promised, we say goodbye. We say and do all the usual, ritualistic "Until Next Weekend" things and everything seems normal.
And I make a valiant effort to carry on as normal for most of the day. I look at a restaurant to take Scott to for his birthday. The place is beautiful and the menu is exquisite. He'll even find something he likes (scallops) and I am jonesing to get dressed up to celebrate. I send him the link. "Your birthday dinner?" I text.
Hours go by. I am cleaning and doing laundry and paying bills.
And no reply from Scott.
And I immediately think he must be chatting with one of the ladies he chats up on line.
So I decide there is no time like the present to load the cannons. I grab the iPad, take a deep breath and go onto Facebook.
I can see that he's connected with the UPS girl he bumps into at work. ????
I can see that he's reached out to a former girlfriend who was an NFL cheerleader (and who now looks like a linebacker instead) with some Readers Digest story about having read some old letters. How sweet.
I can see that some crazy girl from high school who he'd said he'd unfriended was still very much his friend and still very much an aggressive, intrusive pain in the ass.
So I decide on a Hail Mary pass and go long.
He was evidently chatting up all manner of people. No. Scratch that. All manner of women.
I panicked for a moment. I needed him to stop at once. Maybe if he knows I know? I get my phone and message him. "Howzitallgoinginthere?" Refraining of course from saying something more like "Finish your business and come out so I can lop off your dick with some kitchen shears, you sneaky little weasel." Very mature of me, I think.
He didn't answer, but promptly flushed and came out. Not looking any more guilty than when he'd gone in.
Obviously a sociopath.
Confront or don't confront? That is the question. And it's a doozy.
I decide not to confront. Yet.
Any lawyer will tell you to never ask a witness a question to which you don't already know the answer. No one needs a surprise when there is so much skin in the game. I needed to fill my arsenal with ammo. Factual ammo. So confronting will have to wait.
Later, after we've had breakfast and coffee and he's tweaked the lock on my porch door like he'd promised, we say goodbye. We say and do all the usual, ritualistic "Until Next Weekend" things and everything seems normal.
And I make a valiant effort to carry on as normal for most of the day. I look at a restaurant to take Scott to for his birthday. The place is beautiful and the menu is exquisite. He'll even find something he likes (scallops) and I am jonesing to get dressed up to celebrate. I send him the link. "Your birthday dinner?" I text.
Hours go by. I am cleaning and doing laundry and paying bills.
And no reply from Scott.
And I immediately think he must be chatting with one of the ladies he chats up on line.
So I decide there is no time like the present to load the cannons. I grab the iPad, take a deep breath and go onto Facebook.
I can see that he's connected with the UPS girl he bumps into at work. ????
I can see that he's reached out to a former girlfriend who was an NFL cheerleader (and who now looks like a linebacker instead) with some Readers Digest story about having read some old letters. How sweet.
I can see that some crazy girl from high school who he'd said he'd unfriended was still very much his friend and still very much an aggressive, intrusive pain in the ass.
So I decide on a Hail Mary pass and go long.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Status Unknown
I'd had no need to define things. We were madly in love from the start. Exclusive. Spent every available, even inconvenient, moment together that we could. Drove hours in all manner of weather for a few hours together. Declared our love out loud early. Merged the kids. Met the families. Why would I have asked for a label?
Scott had been married and had changed his status to undefined before his divorce was final and as we'd planned our first date. He'd said he had worried that I would feel weird about dating someone who was married. I am not sure I'd have cared what his FB status read. I knew what his actual status was.
But eventually, I suppose it would have been nice to change it to "in a relationship" with me. I never really gave it a thought except once.
He bought an iPad. Not the end of the world, but it did open a door I'd not thought to open. He, being someone easily bored with all manner of gadget, car, toy, and gizmo was bored with the iPad in 2 weeks. I was just becoming a little envious and thinking I should get one, so I offered to buy it. Deal.
But it had been set up as his for a little while and it took some effort to make it all mine. Music, apps, photos, etc.
And Facebook.
So one day, while he's at my house and off using the bathroom, I use the iPad to log into Facebook. But I realize it is his account that has come up. I don't even have to "break the glass" and log in. It's just there.
And I can see immediately that Scott has his phone with him.
Because right at that very moment I can see he is messaging someone. Several someones.
Scott had been married and had changed his status to undefined before his divorce was final and as we'd planned our first date. He'd said he had worried that I would feel weird about dating someone who was married. I am not sure I'd have cared what his FB status read. I knew what his actual status was.
But eventually, I suppose it would have been nice to change it to "in a relationship" with me. I never really gave it a thought except once.
He bought an iPad. Not the end of the world, but it did open a door I'd not thought to open. He, being someone easily bored with all manner of gadget, car, toy, and gizmo was bored with the iPad in 2 weeks. I was just becoming a little envious and thinking I should get one, so I offered to buy it. Deal.
But it had been set up as his for a little while and it took some effort to make it all mine. Music, apps, photos, etc.
And Facebook.
So one day, while he's at my house and off using the bathroom, I use the iPad to log into Facebook. But I realize it is his account that has come up. I don't even have to "break the glass" and log in. It's just there.
And I can see immediately that Scott has his phone with him.
Because right at that very moment I can see he is messaging someone. Several someones.
Friday, June 14, 2013
The Dark Side
Scott was a high school sweetheart that went off, as I did, got married a time or two, and then when he was single again, found me on Facebook.
The timing was perfect. I had just skidded out of the flames and debris of my relationship with J. and was quietly trying to figure out how to recover a life for myself. Scott came along at precisely the right moment. I had met a few decent guys who were either geographically undesirable (a plane ride puts some limits on how often you can go out for drinks) or who were just revolting in some way (Casey and his breath fouling the air all over the township) and was ready to take a deep breath and dive into the pool again.
Scott "friended" me just when I was feeling the first twinge of loneliness.
And we all know how that began, and ended. Again, flames. Flames of passion and then flames of destruction following a detonating bomb.
And at the end, when he'd so cruelly let me "figure it out for myself" that he had unceremoniously dumped me, I went on Facebook and had clarified a bunch of my more vague messages of woe by changing my status from undefined to "single," knowing that any status change would be blasted out to my Friends as soon as I closed the page on the update.
My Friends had immediately begun to comment. Words of encouragement. Flirtatious messages. "You go, girl"-s and invitations to step out. Talk about taking a swan song and turning into a symphony.
And I supposed Scott had been offended, because before morning, he had unfriended me and all of our common friends. As if to say, "You are not only single, I want nothing to do with you or anything that is remotely tied to you." My kids, my sister, our friends from high school, my cousins, friends he'd befriended since meeting me, all unfriended. His loss. These people became some of my biggest champions.
So putting a label on things when it ended was almost as damaging as it is suggested it would have been had I tried too hard to define things from the start.
But perhaps I should have tried to label things earlier on in the relationship. Perhaps the ensuing argument would have given me a little insight to the dark side of Scott's character that eventually emerged.
The timing was perfect. I had just skidded out of the flames and debris of my relationship with J. and was quietly trying to figure out how to recover a life for myself. Scott came along at precisely the right moment. I had met a few decent guys who were either geographically undesirable (a plane ride puts some limits on how often you can go out for drinks) or who were just revolting in some way (Casey and his breath fouling the air all over the township) and was ready to take a deep breath and dive into the pool again.
Scott "friended" me just when I was feeling the first twinge of loneliness.
And we all know how that began, and ended. Again, flames. Flames of passion and then flames of destruction following a detonating bomb.
And at the end, when he'd so cruelly let me "figure it out for myself" that he had unceremoniously dumped me, I went on Facebook and had clarified a bunch of my more vague messages of woe by changing my status from undefined to "single," knowing that any status change would be blasted out to my Friends as soon as I closed the page on the update.
My Friends had immediately begun to comment. Words of encouragement. Flirtatious messages. "You go, girl"-s and invitations to step out. Talk about taking a swan song and turning into a symphony.
And I supposed Scott had been offended, because before morning, he had unfriended me and all of our common friends. As if to say, "You are not only single, I want nothing to do with you or anything that is remotely tied to you." My kids, my sister, our friends from high school, my cousins, friends he'd befriended since meeting me, all unfriended. His loss. These people became some of my biggest champions.
So putting a label on things when it ended was almost as damaging as it is suggested it would have been had I tried too hard to define things from the start.
But perhaps I should have tried to label things earlier on in the relationship. Perhaps the ensuing argument would have given me a little insight to the dark side of Scott's character that eventually emerged.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Rules of the Dating Road
Of course, the article of grave import is not on the first page. Jammed between a page on hair removal products that really work (now dog-eared for future use) and a two-pager about how to dress your particular body shape (umm, go buy a full length mirror as a start...), it is buried in a nifty little How To section regarding how to date now. Since all the rules have changed since I was really last on the market. I went from the frying pan of dating, to the Hell that was marriage, to the funeral pyre that was J., to the ticking time bomb that was Scott, without really taking a lot of time to figure out how people who were truly dating figured out the rules of the road.
The road that is now very winding, and treacherous, and bumpy, and poorly lit, with confusing signs, having wild animals darting out into traffic, and not covered by the latest version of GoogleMaps. I really do need turn-by-turn navigation for this. I am driving around in little circles looking for the Love Shack and trying to avoid Heartbreak Hotel.
So the three things we do that our "dates" wish we wouldn't?
It is really three things that result from one thing. And that is "Keep it off of Facebook."
Doomed. Facebook is how this all began. Too late. No turning back. Facebook brought us all together. It isn't like we can go back and erase what has happened. Any change now would surely be weird and unnatural. And visible to all our Friends, even those we aren't really on friendly terms with.
But the three reasons are insightful, in spite of their having come about 2 years too late to the party.
First up: Facebook is bad for a relationship because it makes us define things too soon. The anonymous guy who contributed color commentary on that idea said that when a woman hits him up with a request to get rid of his single relationship status, it is a premature question about "what they are." He also notes, reassuringly that a guy can be serious about you without wanting a public label.
Labels. They'll get you every time.
I always thought it was no one's GD business what my relationship status was on Facebook. When I first opened my account, I just left it blank. Wouldn't it be obvious that I shared my life with someone, based on the nature of my posts?
And evidently, it was not enough for J. He thought Facebook was the root of all relationship evil. That it could only lead to cheating. Why did I need some secret, exclusive clubhouse full of friends that did not include him? (Well, duh, because you won't join Facebook so that sort of leave everyone with no choice but to exclude you, numbskull.)
I lay the mag across my tummy for a moment and grimly recall when J. did join Facebook. And when after I'd dumped him and he incredulously tried to change our relationship status to "engaged." As if putting it on Facebook made it so.
And "making it so"...isn't that what the woman in the article would be doing by asking the guy in the article to change his status? Can it just be so without telling everyone on Facebook that it is?
But isn't that precisely the issue I later had with Scott? Saying it was so?
I close the mag. I need to ponder this first tidbit of advice on a good night's sleep.
The road that is now very winding, and treacherous, and bumpy, and poorly lit, with confusing signs, having wild animals darting out into traffic, and not covered by the latest version of GoogleMaps. I really do need turn-by-turn navigation for this. I am driving around in little circles looking for the Love Shack and trying to avoid Heartbreak Hotel.
So the three things we do that our "dates" wish we wouldn't?
It is really three things that result from one thing. And that is "Keep it off of Facebook."
Doomed. Facebook is how this all began. Too late. No turning back. Facebook brought us all together. It isn't like we can go back and erase what has happened. Any change now would surely be weird and unnatural. And visible to all our Friends, even those we aren't really on friendly terms with.
But the three reasons are insightful, in spite of their having come about 2 years too late to the party.
First up: Facebook is bad for a relationship because it makes us define things too soon. The anonymous guy who contributed color commentary on that idea said that when a woman hits him up with a request to get rid of his single relationship status, it is a premature question about "what they are." He also notes, reassuringly that a guy can be serious about you without wanting a public label.
Labels. They'll get you every time.
I always thought it was no one's GD business what my relationship status was on Facebook. When I first opened my account, I just left it blank. Wouldn't it be obvious that I shared my life with someone, based on the nature of my posts?
And evidently, it was not enough for J. He thought Facebook was the root of all relationship evil. That it could only lead to cheating. Why did I need some secret, exclusive clubhouse full of friends that did not include him? (Well, duh, because you won't join Facebook so that sort of leave everyone with no choice but to exclude you, numbskull.)
I lay the mag across my tummy for a moment and grimly recall when J. did join Facebook. And when after I'd dumped him and he incredulously tried to change our relationship status to "engaged." As if putting it on Facebook made it so.
And "making it so"...isn't that what the woman in the article would be doing by asking the guy in the article to change his status? Can it just be so without telling everyone on Facebook that it is?
But isn't that precisely the issue I later had with Scott? Saying it was so?
I close the mag. I need to ponder this first tidbit of advice on a good night's sleep.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Cosmo Girl
Scott is wishing me a happy Easter. No harm in that, right? I wait until I am not careening through the county in the rain before I answer. In fact I wait until I've had a glass and half of wine before I answer.
I wish him a happy Easter back, and tell him to tell the girls and his sister and the rest of the family the same. And a special wine soaked hello to his great aunt and uncle who I always found wildly entertaining at holiday dinners that were preceded by holiday cheer.
I am banking on the communication phenomenon I discovered when Mac reared his shaven melon head a few months back. Just like then, I have my fingers crossed that Craig will be raising his hand and getting my attention the moment my head is turned for a millisecond in another man's direction.
But it doesn't happen. And Scott sends another text.
So I assist matters.
I send Craig a benign Easter greeting.
And cha-ching! Pay dirt!
Craig writes right back with a similar greeting...and then admits to not having replied to my earlier hard-to-ignore flirtation. He makes a cute comment. And asks what I am doing for the holiday. I tell him about the invitation from my fabulous cousin and her boisterous family and watching NCAA basketball and rejoicing that Duke is getting crushed. It's a nice conversation. I am relieved.
I have no idea what I am doing. I have no idea what gets Craig's attention. Nor do I know what will hold it.
I enjoy a fabulous dinner, great company and much family story-telling. There really is nothing like family that you don't need to explain things to. No one needs the background on why no one invites my brother Joe to anything or why we try to leave town or at least get a prescription for sedatives in advance of my mother's arrival in town.
Eventually I say my goodbyes, schlep through the rain to my car with the potted tulip my cousin was kind enough to give me and make my way home. I have to stop at CVS to pick up a prescription on the way home. And while I wait I spy the latest issue of Cosmo.
One of the featured articles is entitled "The 3 Things You Probably Do That Guys Are Begging You Not To Do When You Date."
Could my answer be there on the pages of Cosmo in between advice about how to choose the perfect pink lipstick and the rules of wearing stripes?
I am willing to bank on it. I grab the mag, wait for my script and race home to find the article. Asking Cosmo might be easier than figuring out Craig's proclivities on my own.
Provided it is a matter of proclivities and not some other matter all together.
I wish him a happy Easter back, and tell him to tell the girls and his sister and the rest of the family the same. And a special wine soaked hello to his great aunt and uncle who I always found wildly entertaining at holiday dinners that were preceded by holiday cheer.
I am banking on the communication phenomenon I discovered when Mac reared his shaven melon head a few months back. Just like then, I have my fingers crossed that Craig will be raising his hand and getting my attention the moment my head is turned for a millisecond in another man's direction.
But it doesn't happen. And Scott sends another text.
So I assist matters.
I send Craig a benign Easter greeting.
And cha-ching! Pay dirt!
Craig writes right back with a similar greeting...and then admits to not having replied to my earlier hard-to-ignore flirtation. He makes a cute comment. And asks what I am doing for the holiday. I tell him about the invitation from my fabulous cousin and her boisterous family and watching NCAA basketball and rejoicing that Duke is getting crushed. It's a nice conversation. I am relieved.
I have no idea what I am doing. I have no idea what gets Craig's attention. Nor do I know what will hold it.
I enjoy a fabulous dinner, great company and much family story-telling. There really is nothing like family that you don't need to explain things to. No one needs the background on why no one invites my brother Joe to anything or why we try to leave town or at least get a prescription for sedatives in advance of my mother's arrival in town.
Eventually I say my goodbyes, schlep through the rain to my car with the potted tulip my cousin was kind enough to give me and make my way home. I have to stop at CVS to pick up a prescription on the way home. And while I wait I spy the latest issue of Cosmo.
One of the featured articles is entitled "The 3 Things You Probably Do That Guys Are Begging You Not To Do When You Date."
Could my answer be there on the pages of Cosmo in between advice about how to choose the perfect pink lipstick and the rules of wearing stripes?
I am willing to bank on it. I grab the mag, wait for my script and race home to find the article. Asking Cosmo might be easier than figuring out Craig's proclivities on my own.
Provided it is a matter of proclivities and not some other matter all together.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Hippity Sloppity
I am completely soaked when I finish my 10 mile trek, and will have to scramble to get to all of my obligations on time. And I still have to cut some daffodils from my yard for Dad's grave. Should be a blast in the rain...the flower cutting AND the graveside. Yippee.
I race home, cut the flowers, tie a ribbon around them, jam them in a pint glass full of water so they don't immediately wilt while I shower. I have weapons-grade BO and need to stand in a steaming, scalding shower to return to an acceptable human condition recognizable by other humans. There will 19 of us gathered at dinner. It's the least I can do not to smell like I've slept in a landfill.
The weather woes return while I scour myself with lye, and I am dismayed to learn that I will look like an ass if I wear my plucky Spring outfit out in the schmutz. Sleeveless and flowing florals will need to be replaced by something more grim and dismal. And to do so will add to the dwindling prep time needed to be fabulous and on time for dinner.
I wrap my hair in something typically used to dry vehicles at the car wash and begin to rifle through my closet for something casual but not slummy, cute but not showy, flattering but not flirtatious. I have nothing.
Eventually I pull on the mustard skinny corduroys I just had altered to the tune of 35 dollars and 3 weeks of being out of commission. I am actually grateful to be able to wear them, since the tailor was probably wearing them herself for the remainder of the corduroy season. I find a plum sweater and coordinate accessories while my hair gets the life soaked out of it and becomes a tumbleweed. I rub some styling lotion through the raffia-like strands and begin to spackle and paint my face.
Eventually I am prepared to leave. I grab the pint of daffodils, the plant I got for my cousin, the bottle of wine I stashed in the freezer to bring to a reasonable drinking temperature, and head out into the weather with an ankle-length rain coat covering all but my feet. Fetching.
The rain mercifully stops while I visit my Dad's grave. A few hurried prayers and a few tearful sentences to Dad and then I am off to my cousin's breaking the land speed record and trying to listen to my Google Maps backseat driver.
And as I drive I get a text. But not from Craig.
From Scott.
I race home, cut the flowers, tie a ribbon around them, jam them in a pint glass full of water so they don't immediately wilt while I shower. I have weapons-grade BO and need to stand in a steaming, scalding shower to return to an acceptable human condition recognizable by other humans. There will 19 of us gathered at dinner. It's the least I can do not to smell like I've slept in a landfill.
The weather woes return while I scour myself with lye, and I am dismayed to learn that I will look like an ass if I wear my plucky Spring outfit out in the schmutz. Sleeveless and flowing florals will need to be replaced by something more grim and dismal. And to do so will add to the dwindling prep time needed to be fabulous and on time for dinner.
I wrap my hair in something typically used to dry vehicles at the car wash and begin to rifle through my closet for something casual but not slummy, cute but not showy, flattering but not flirtatious. I have nothing.
Eventually I pull on the mustard skinny corduroys I just had altered to the tune of 35 dollars and 3 weeks of being out of commission. I am actually grateful to be able to wear them, since the tailor was probably wearing them herself for the remainder of the corduroy season. I find a plum sweater and coordinate accessories while my hair gets the life soaked out of it and becomes a tumbleweed. I rub some styling lotion through the raffia-like strands and begin to spackle and paint my face.
Eventually I am prepared to leave. I grab the pint of daffodils, the plant I got for my cousin, the bottle of wine I stashed in the freezer to bring to a reasonable drinking temperature, and head out into the weather with an ankle-length rain coat covering all but my feet. Fetching.
The rain mercifully stops while I visit my Dad's grave. A few hurried prayers and a few tearful sentences to Dad and then I am off to my cousin's breaking the land speed record and trying to listen to my Google Maps backseat driver.
And as I drive I get a text. But not from Craig.
From Scott.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Hopping Down The Bunny Trail
I rise early and look at my phone. I had taken a beautiful photo of daffodils the day before and wanted to post an Easter message on Facebook. While the phone is conveniently in my hand, I also send a text to Craig noting that in spite of it being a Holy Day I felt compelled to share an irreverent thought with him. Flirtation deftly accomplished, I will myself to an upright position and make myself presentable for Mass. I have a fabulous dress and heels to don in keeping with tradition, but have skipped the hat since Hil laughed to the point of tears when she saw it.
Am dismayed beyond description to find as I turn to sit in the first pew that Casey (Casey of foul breath and bad humor fame) is seated across the aisle a few rows back. I begin furiously fanning myself with the special program I'd been handed so as to not have actual beads of sweat form on my brow at the notion that Casey will no doubt spend the better part of the next hour looking directly at my ass. Stifle the urge to raise my hand and get the attention of Monsignor and squeal, "Father! Father! Impure thoughts in row 6!"
After Mass I race home, slam down some coffee, change into typically unforgiving workout gear, grab my iPhone and head to the State Park. It is a glorious Easter Sunday and spring has begun to spring out of every crevice of the park. I am going to love every minute of the walk. However, it appears that Craig has not responded to my flirtation. And it would be a tough one to ignore. But ignore it he has. WTF?
The park is lovely and there is a beautiful Peace mural near the entrance that I photograph and post as I check in on FB. Craig immediately "likes" it...but while the phone is conveniently in HIS hand, he does not take the time to shoot back and equally enticing flirtatious text in response to mine. "Why the hell not?" I screech in my head taking the Lord's name silently in vain a few times as I do.
But as I make my way up the mile long hill and say hello to all the others I pass, my anger and frustration fade and I begin to make note of all the little changes in the park, even since yesterday. The turkey buzzards have come out. There are chipmunks everywhere. Nests are starting to appear in the branches of the trees that are just beginning to bud.
And then I pass a man coming up the final hill as I descend it. He is pushing a very disabled teenaged boy in a wheelchair up the hill. He is in a full sweat. He is huffing. The child is clearly enjoying the feel of the sun on his face and the breeze through the trees.
And I suddenly am overwhelmed with gratitude for all that I have that I so routinely take for granted. The simple fact that I can even walk these trails, unassisted and at will is such a gift.
I return to my car deep in thought and as I climb in, I notice that I still have two unopened bottles of water on my front seat. I grab them and get out.
Practically sprinting, I return to the trails, this time, going the reverse route. The direction the man and the boy were going. I step up the pace and double time nearly a mile and a half. Eventually I overtake them.
I slow for a minute so I can catch my breath. And then I approach them. "Good morning, again," I say. "Happy Easter. You may have these if you like." I had the man the bottles of water.
He smiles and takes the water. Stowing one and opening the other. "Thanks so much," he says, a little surprised.
Not wanting to make him feel like I pitied him, I turn and head off, and mutter something like, "I've had my fill already. Enjoy!" I keep going as though I'd planned to all along, as if doubling up on the hilly 5 mile loop was something I'd actually consider.
And I feel good enough about the good deed that I don't even care that as I make the turn 2 miles in, the sky opens up and it begins to torrentially rain.
Am dismayed beyond description to find as I turn to sit in the first pew that Casey (Casey of foul breath and bad humor fame) is seated across the aisle a few rows back. I begin furiously fanning myself with the special program I'd been handed so as to not have actual beads of sweat form on my brow at the notion that Casey will no doubt spend the better part of the next hour looking directly at my ass. Stifle the urge to raise my hand and get the attention of Monsignor and squeal, "Father! Father! Impure thoughts in row 6!"
After Mass I race home, slam down some coffee, change into typically unforgiving workout gear, grab my iPhone and head to the State Park. It is a glorious Easter Sunday and spring has begun to spring out of every crevice of the park. I am going to love every minute of the walk. However, it appears that Craig has not responded to my flirtation. And it would be a tough one to ignore. But ignore it he has. WTF?
The park is lovely and there is a beautiful Peace mural near the entrance that I photograph and post as I check in on FB. Craig immediately "likes" it...but while the phone is conveniently in HIS hand, he does not take the time to shoot back and equally enticing flirtatious text in response to mine. "Why the hell not?" I screech in my head taking the Lord's name silently in vain a few times as I do.
But as I make my way up the mile long hill and say hello to all the others I pass, my anger and frustration fade and I begin to make note of all the little changes in the park, even since yesterday. The turkey buzzards have come out. There are chipmunks everywhere. Nests are starting to appear in the branches of the trees that are just beginning to bud.
And then I pass a man coming up the final hill as I descend it. He is pushing a very disabled teenaged boy in a wheelchair up the hill. He is in a full sweat. He is huffing. The child is clearly enjoying the feel of the sun on his face and the breeze through the trees.
And I suddenly am overwhelmed with gratitude for all that I have that I so routinely take for granted. The simple fact that I can even walk these trails, unassisted and at will is such a gift.
I return to my car deep in thought and as I climb in, I notice that I still have two unopened bottles of water on my front seat. I grab them and get out.
Practically sprinting, I return to the trails, this time, going the reverse route. The direction the man and the boy were going. I step up the pace and double time nearly a mile and a half. Eventually I overtake them.
I slow for a minute so I can catch my breath. And then I approach them. "Good morning, again," I say. "Happy Easter. You may have these if you like." I had the man the bottles of water.
He smiles and takes the water. Stowing one and opening the other. "Thanks so much," he says, a little surprised.
Not wanting to make him feel like I pitied him, I turn and head off, and mutter something like, "I've had my fill already. Enjoy!" I keep going as though I'd planned to all along, as if doubling up on the hilly 5 mile loop was something I'd actually consider.
And I feel good enough about the good deed that I don't even care that as I make the turn 2 miles in, the sky opens up and it begins to torrentially rain.
Friday, June 7, 2013
No Place To Call Home
Having solved that little dilemma for the moment, I lay back and soak in the warm homey comfort of the farmhouse bedroom that has been assigned to me by my friends. I am lying here alone, but somehow it feels better than lying alone in my own bed. I don't know why.
I get up and make myself presentable. As presentable as one looks in the gear they've selected to wear to go break an Olympic caliber sweat in a State park with a hangover. I head to the kitchen for an around-the-farmhouse-table chat with the family, strong coffee in big stonewear mugs, and a fabulous omelet prepared by my friend's less hungover spouse.
Eventually, I take leave, letting them get to their own holiday undertakings -- Egg hunts, flower cutting, custody handoffs and whatnot. I have no such elaborate plans but don't want to interfere with theirs. Of course I am waylaid by the Chocolate Lab who had hesitated to leave my side the prior evening. He grabs his leash and hops into my car, taking up residence in the passenger seat as though it were his, natch. I had forgotten that I should have "ix-nayed on the alk-way" conversation as I made my way out.
I notice on the way out that my friend has planted Easter flowers and placed nests they've found on their property in bushes for seasonally joyous decoration. Little touches everywhere. I had not so much as dyed an Easter Egg at my house. No chicks and bunnies adorned my table tops or table linens. No kids, no need.I didn't even bake anything traditional. I have no one to bake for. No hostess to present with a cake for having invited me. Last year I'd been at Scott's sister's. I'd baked a ton of things.
Eventually I extricate the dog from the car, but not without first taking and posting a cute photo of him to Facebook remarking that he was not likely to take "no" for an answer...
And I go, wondering what Craig is up to, and thinking about what in the world I should do about Scott. I am not sure I am ready to have him completely gone from my life. He's been a 33 year habit. Yet I don't have any idea what place he should have in my life. These are paths less traveled by in my life. I have usually maintained friendships with everyone I've dated. If we were good dates, that usually means a foundation of friendship was poured first. But no one else has ever been so uncommonly mean in the breakup (Lars notwithstanding) and I am not sure what our relationship is supposed to feel like, much less what to call it.
I am hoping that I figure it all out on the walk. I tend to figure out everything when I am on one of my walks. My life. My career. What to do about Easter.
I don't do anything of the kind, of course.
But I do remember that I need to stop by the little Irish pub I'd been to with my cousin and her friends on St. Patty's Day. The name of it, which I can barely pronounce, much less spell, is the name of a county in Ireland where my colleague's brother lives. I told him I'd get him a T-shirt since he was sweet enough to get me two pair of drinking gloves.
I go and have a seat at the bar. It's barely noon, so the bar isn't exactly packed. I have to wait for the bar tender. In the mean time, I check Facebook. Evidently my photo of the Chocolate Lab in my car has gotten a lot of attention from people who think I've taken in yet another animal I don't have the capacity to discipline properly.
One of them is my cousin. I reply to her that I am not getting a dog, it was a loaner, but ironically, for the second time in a row, I am in our pub with my running gear on.
She laughs and asks what the kids and I are doing for Easter. I tell her the kids are with Lars.
She is appropriately horrified but reads through the lines. "Are you going to Charlotte's?"
"No," I say, trying not to sound like a total loser. "Charlotte is traveling with her family. I will go to Mass. Visit Dad's grave. Hit the trails. Watch a little NCAA basketball."
"Don't be ridiculous. You are coming here. I am seating 18. 19 will hardly make a difference."
I thank her profusely and accept.
Such a simple conversation has managed to make me feel like I belong somewhere, when all I figured out on my walk is that I really don't have anyone or anywhere to call my heart's home. And that was making it hard to go home. But after discussing the T-shirt with the bartender, I order a beer, scratch out a to-do list on my phone while I drink it, and then indeed, head for home.
I get up and make myself presentable. As presentable as one looks in the gear they've selected to wear to go break an Olympic caliber sweat in a State park with a hangover. I head to the kitchen for an around-the-farmhouse-table chat with the family, strong coffee in big stonewear mugs, and a fabulous omelet prepared by my friend's less hungover spouse.
Eventually, I take leave, letting them get to their own holiday undertakings -- Egg hunts, flower cutting, custody handoffs and whatnot. I have no such elaborate plans but don't want to interfere with theirs. Of course I am waylaid by the Chocolate Lab who had hesitated to leave my side the prior evening. He grabs his leash and hops into my car, taking up residence in the passenger seat as though it were his, natch. I had forgotten that I should have "ix-nayed on the alk-way" conversation as I made my way out.
I notice on the way out that my friend has planted Easter flowers and placed nests they've found on their property in bushes for seasonally joyous decoration. Little touches everywhere. I had not so much as dyed an Easter Egg at my house. No chicks and bunnies adorned my table tops or table linens. No kids, no need.I didn't even bake anything traditional. I have no one to bake for. No hostess to present with a cake for having invited me. Last year I'd been at Scott's sister's. I'd baked a ton of things.
Eventually I extricate the dog from the car, but not without first taking and posting a cute photo of him to Facebook remarking that he was not likely to take "no" for an answer...
And I go, wondering what Craig is up to, and thinking about what in the world I should do about Scott. I am not sure I am ready to have him completely gone from my life. He's been a 33 year habit. Yet I don't have any idea what place he should have in my life. These are paths less traveled by in my life. I have usually maintained friendships with everyone I've dated. If we were good dates, that usually means a foundation of friendship was poured first. But no one else has ever been so uncommonly mean in the breakup (Lars notwithstanding) and I am not sure what our relationship is supposed to feel like, much less what to call it.
I am hoping that I figure it all out on the walk. I tend to figure out everything when I am on one of my walks. My life. My career. What to do about Easter.
I don't do anything of the kind, of course.
But I do remember that I need to stop by the little Irish pub I'd been to with my cousin and her friends on St. Patty's Day. The name of it, which I can barely pronounce, much less spell, is the name of a county in Ireland where my colleague's brother lives. I told him I'd get him a T-shirt since he was sweet enough to get me two pair of drinking gloves.
I go and have a seat at the bar. It's barely noon, so the bar isn't exactly packed. I have to wait for the bar tender. In the mean time, I check Facebook. Evidently my photo of the Chocolate Lab in my car has gotten a lot of attention from people who think I've taken in yet another animal I don't have the capacity to discipline properly.
One of them is my cousin. I reply to her that I am not getting a dog, it was a loaner, but ironically, for the second time in a row, I am in our pub with my running gear on.
She laughs and asks what the kids and I are doing for Easter. I tell her the kids are with Lars.
She is appropriately horrified but reads through the lines. "Are you going to Charlotte's?"
"No," I say, trying not to sound like a total loser. "Charlotte is traveling with her family. I will go to Mass. Visit Dad's grave. Hit the trails. Watch a little NCAA basketball."
"Don't be ridiculous. You are coming here. I am seating 18. 19 will hardly make a difference."
I thank her profusely and accept.
Such a simple conversation has managed to make me feel like I belong somewhere, when all I figured out on my walk is that I really don't have anyone or anywhere to call my heart's home. And that was making it hard to go home. But after discussing the T-shirt with the bartender, I order a beer, scratch out a to-do list on my phone while I drink it, and then indeed, head for home.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Your Call Is Important To Us
And sometime early the next morning, Scott texts again. Tells me the name and the location of the paintball place and suggests that it would be a super place to take Pat for his birthday. It no doubt would, but Pat's birthday is nearly three months away and the place is no closer to me than the ones Charlotte investigated when contemplating the same thing for Pat at Christmas. There is evidently no such thing as a suburban paint ball venue. Must be all the roads and establishments.
So as I lay in bed I have two issues.
Three if you count the nagging little wine hangover.
But the real pressing ones are these:
1 - Why is Scott texting me in the early morning? Morning texts are really reserved for work emergencies, and flirtatious love notes from potential mates (and maybe one's mother if she is annoying like mine).
2 - And do I respond?
I don't have any recollection of what time the text arrived since I've conveniently and a little petulantly erased all emails and texts we ever exchanged in a hasty clean sweep of technical cobwebs. But I know it was pretty early. 7 am? 8?
But there is part of me that thinks that the timing is suspicious. That it is a test of some kind. To see if I am in a position to receive and read texts at this hour. Read that, "If I am lying alone in my bed thinking about making a cup of coffee or am I tangled up in the sheets with a man with no interest in my phone which is currently buried deep in the purse that is dangling from the ceiling fan where I flung it last night en route to the aforementioned sheets with said man?"
And I decide to ignore this text for a while, too.
The truth is, given the choice, I would have been in exactly that entangled predicament with Craig at the moment and the fact that I am not is just a detail. If I ran the world, I would be preoccupied and unavailable.
So I let the illusion lie there and fester. Better that Scott think that my phone went dark after our first brief exchange last night, which preceded regulation date hours, and will not be looked at again until everyone is showered, shaved, coffeed up and has had a decent breakfast.
It is not the kindest thing to do, but it is not inaccurate. The sooner he realizes that there will be times, preferably lots and lots of times, when he will not be a priority, and his texts will go unanswered while I live the life I choose, the sooner it will sink in.
I have indeed moved on.
So as I lay in bed I have two issues.
Three if you count the nagging little wine hangover.
But the real pressing ones are these:
1 - Why is Scott texting me in the early morning? Morning texts are really reserved for work emergencies, and flirtatious love notes from potential mates (and maybe one's mother if she is annoying like mine).
2 - And do I respond?
I don't have any recollection of what time the text arrived since I've conveniently and a little petulantly erased all emails and texts we ever exchanged in a hasty clean sweep of technical cobwebs. But I know it was pretty early. 7 am? 8?
But there is part of me that thinks that the timing is suspicious. That it is a test of some kind. To see if I am in a position to receive and read texts at this hour. Read that, "If I am lying alone in my bed thinking about making a cup of coffee or am I tangled up in the sheets with a man with no interest in my phone which is currently buried deep in the purse that is dangling from the ceiling fan where I flung it last night en route to the aforementioned sheets with said man?"
And I decide to ignore this text for a while, too.
The truth is, given the choice, I would have been in exactly that entangled predicament with Craig at the moment and the fact that I am not is just a detail. If I ran the world, I would be preoccupied and unavailable.
So I let the illusion lie there and fester. Better that Scott think that my phone went dark after our first brief exchange last night, which preceded regulation date hours, and will not be looked at again until everyone is showered, shaved, coffeed up and has had a decent breakfast.
It is not the kindest thing to do, but it is not inaccurate. The sooner he realizes that there will be times, preferably lots and lots of times, when he will not be a priority, and his texts will go unanswered while I live the life I choose, the sooner it will sink in.
I have indeed moved on.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
The Lost Weekend
So I head into the weekend with a plan for my transforming life (sort of) and nothing for my social life.
But let's back up a minute. We forgot all about Easter. It was a defining holiday, even without the tragedy that straddled it.
So Craig came and went and I took my kids to my college town for a few days. And then, in the middle of what would on a normal custody week, I had to return them to Lars, since we share the holiday weeks since we separated. We each get a little quality time with the kids and the burden of days of from work so they don't sit at home and vegetate while we toil. This will be brutal. I have a long stretch without them.
But I've told Craig that I would love to see him if he finds it feasible. Something tells me it might be, but I have no idea why I think that. I am kidding myself thinking I know the first thing about what goes on in the driver's seat of his world.
As the weekend draws near, I ask Craig cheerfully what the possibilities are that I will see his handsome face again so soon.
Exactly none, evidently. There are sporting events and family visiting and then it's Easter (as if I weren't acutely aware that Easter was waiting at the top of the stairs) so he will have no time "to kick back" with me.
Is that what we are doing? We kick back? I thought these were dates. Who knew?
But my friend from work has a suggestion. She invites me to Book Club. Evidently it is no big deal that I have not read the book. It's a sure bet that almost no one has. This Book Club Meeting is really just a cover for getting together and eating and drinking and gossiping about all that has happened since the last so-called meeting.
She says to be practical, my spare room in her house is ready. Pack a bag and come out and join them. Maybe I can suggest the next book. If I've read it, chances are they will at least download it on their Kindles.
On Friday, I return from work, shower and change and grab my bag. I pack only PJs and running clothes as I will capitalize on the morning by heading directly to the park for a jaunt on the trails. The busier I am, the less crappy I will feel about my extended bought of the Lonelies.
And it is exactly what the doctor has ordered. A bunch of fun, funny women, exactly one husband, a family dog who won't leave my side, and a couple of sweet kids who are happy to bring Mommy the wine from the fridge when someone needs to be topped off.
I get a text or two from Craig that make me feel more important than I had. And I get a text from Scott. He and the kids bought a group session of paint ball and were headed out to chase each other through the woods with loaded rifles full of paint. I can't imagine anything more hideous and disturbing at the moment, but he's right when he says that Pat would love it.
The night wears on, it gets very, very late. The kids nod off, the ladies file out one by one, repeating the name of a book we think we might be able to commit to at least thumbing through. I help clean up and then head off to slumber in my charming little farmhouse guest room. I plug in my phone as I lay down to sleep and send Craig a good night text.
And I notice that I have a text from Scott. He'd sent it about an hour after the last one.
I choose to ignore it.
But let's back up a minute. We forgot all about Easter. It was a defining holiday, even without the tragedy that straddled it.
So Craig came and went and I took my kids to my college town for a few days. And then, in the middle of what would on a normal custody week, I had to return them to Lars, since we share the holiday weeks since we separated. We each get a little quality time with the kids and the burden of days of from work so they don't sit at home and vegetate while we toil. This will be brutal. I have a long stretch without them.
But I've told Craig that I would love to see him if he finds it feasible. Something tells me it might be, but I have no idea why I think that. I am kidding myself thinking I know the first thing about what goes on in the driver's seat of his world.
As the weekend draws near, I ask Craig cheerfully what the possibilities are that I will see his handsome face again so soon.
Exactly none, evidently. There are sporting events and family visiting and then it's Easter (as if I weren't acutely aware that Easter was waiting at the top of the stairs) so he will have no time "to kick back" with me.
Is that what we are doing? We kick back? I thought these were dates. Who knew?
But my friend from work has a suggestion. She invites me to Book Club. Evidently it is no big deal that I have not read the book. It's a sure bet that almost no one has. This Book Club Meeting is really just a cover for getting together and eating and drinking and gossiping about all that has happened since the last so-called meeting.
She says to be practical, my spare room in her house is ready. Pack a bag and come out and join them. Maybe I can suggest the next book. If I've read it, chances are they will at least download it on their Kindles.
On Friday, I return from work, shower and change and grab my bag. I pack only PJs and running clothes as I will capitalize on the morning by heading directly to the park for a jaunt on the trails. The busier I am, the less crappy I will feel about my extended bought of the Lonelies.
And it is exactly what the doctor has ordered. A bunch of fun, funny women, exactly one husband, a family dog who won't leave my side, and a couple of sweet kids who are happy to bring Mommy the wine from the fridge when someone needs to be topped off.
I get a text or two from Craig that make me feel more important than I had. And I get a text from Scott. He and the kids bought a group session of paint ball and were headed out to chase each other through the woods with loaded rifles full of paint. I can't imagine anything more hideous and disturbing at the moment, but he's right when he says that Pat would love it.
The night wears on, it gets very, very late. The kids nod off, the ladies file out one by one, repeating the name of a book we think we might be able to commit to at least thumbing through. I help clean up and then head off to slumber in my charming little farmhouse guest room. I plug in my phone as I lay down to sleep and send Craig a good night text.
And I notice that I have a text from Scott. He'd sent it about an hour after the last one.
I choose to ignore it.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Plotting, Planning, Pitting Out
I make some more phone calls. And I get on line. I call all of my resources and references and contacts and set up job searches on all of the search engines I can think of. It is always good to get everyone working with you while your current situation is working against you.
I write some bullet points for Don. Some things I'd like him to keep top of mind while we do the dance. And then I write my work plan for the next few months. Ten weeks of specific accomplishments I will achieve. It should calm him to the point where he can stop mopping his brow. A false sense of being completely in control.
And then I get on with living. I have a few days to myself, Hil's bum leg not withstanding. I need to capitalize on every minute I have. I invite Charlotte over for coffee and a chat. I hit the trails and break a furious sweat. I clean my house. I get off Facebook, and on the job boards.
And I tell Scott.
He is supportive. What else would he be? He says I've been miserable there since day 2 so look at this as the kick in the pants I would not have given myself even if my legs did bend that way. Tells me I know I can count on him if I need anything, just in case I didn't know.
And I didn't know. I'd thought I could count on him before. It's hard to get comfortable with the idea of counting on anyone but me again.
I look at my finances. My accounts, my taxes, my excess spending. Breathe a little easier when I do the math.
On Friday, I text Don. I have left my Blackberry in the office and am on call for the weekend, because God knows when the next life or death Recruiting emergency is going to leap up and bite you on the ass. I ask if his assistant can rummage through my office, unplug it and run it down to me if I drive over the bridge. I am secretly hoping he's feeling crappy enough to tell me he'll take my call duty for me. No such luck.
Next I text his assistant, Carol, who is more my friend that's his assistant. She meets me in front of the building swearing like a sailor at what I'd told her was going on. She assures me that she will text me if there is the slightest buzz. There hasn't been.
I tell her not to worry. I have a plan.
I just haven't worked out the final details. And that is why I need to keep talking to contacts, and walking the trails, and plotting my conversation.
And later in the day I text Carol again, this time asking I to be placed on Don's calendar. She juggles some nonsense and offers me Tuesday at 4. Now that I have a deadline, I will make it happen.
I write some bullet points for Don. Some things I'd like him to keep top of mind while we do the dance. And then I write my work plan for the next few months. Ten weeks of specific accomplishments I will achieve. It should calm him to the point where he can stop mopping his brow. A false sense of being completely in control.
And then I get on with living. I have a few days to myself, Hil's bum leg not withstanding. I need to capitalize on every minute I have. I invite Charlotte over for coffee and a chat. I hit the trails and break a furious sweat. I clean my house. I get off Facebook, and on the job boards.
And I tell Scott.
He is supportive. What else would he be? He says I've been miserable there since day 2 so look at this as the kick in the pants I would not have given myself even if my legs did bend that way. Tells me I know I can count on him if I need anything, just in case I didn't know.
And I didn't know. I'd thought I could count on him before. It's hard to get comfortable with the idea of counting on anyone but me again.
I look at my finances. My accounts, my taxes, my excess spending. Breathe a little easier when I do the math.
On Friday, I text Don. I have left my Blackberry in the office and am on call for the weekend, because God knows when the next life or death Recruiting emergency is going to leap up and bite you on the ass. I ask if his assistant can rummage through my office, unplug it and run it down to me if I drive over the bridge. I am secretly hoping he's feeling crappy enough to tell me he'll take my call duty for me. No such luck.
Next I text his assistant, Carol, who is more my friend that's his assistant. She meets me in front of the building swearing like a sailor at what I'd told her was going on. She assures me that she will text me if there is the slightest buzz. There hasn't been.
I tell her not to worry. I have a plan.
I just haven't worked out the final details. And that is why I need to keep talking to contacts, and walking the trails, and plotting my conversation.
And later in the day I text Carol again, this time asking I to be placed on Don's calendar. She juggles some nonsense and offers me Tuesday at 4. Now that I have a deadline, I will make it happen.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Dancing Shoes
I call a trusted former colleague to stop the buzzing in my head and to gain composure. She just left the company five months earlier. Knows the political landscape. More importantly, the landmines. She's kept her ear to the ground since leaving and knows things are worsening. She's practical. She's is unflinching in her support of me. She is sane. And positive. These are things I need right now as I drive back over the bridge. So I am not compelled to drive off of it.
She tells me that this is an opportunity. With Scott in my past and the horizon stretched out in front of me, why stay in a crap job where I spend half the day banging my head against the wall and the other half apologizing for the noise?
She is fearless. That's why we were great cooks sharing the same kitchen. She motivates me out of my sniveling, shriveling, down-trodden self and gives me a glove so I can get in the game. reminds me how much smarter I am than any of them. I am a behemoth. I need to start thinking like one.
By the time I get home, I am back in the saddle. I call Charlotte to tell her the news. Tell her not to put on her super hero cape just yet. I am going to make lemonade from the lemons I was just pelted with and throw in a splash of Jack Daniels for fun.
Don is right. I have a decision to make. But not the one he thinks I have to make. It is not a Should I Stay or Should I Go moment so artfully described by the classic Kinks tune. They had it right, though. "If I go there will be trouble. An' if I stay it will be double." (Not the pinnacle of creative writing but they nailed it here.)
No. I know I need to leave. What I need to figure out is how and when. I need a plan. I need it to work. I need to turn the tables and outsmart the fox, even though I am not entirely sure who the fox is at the moment.
The only thing I am sure of is this: I would rather dance with the devil I know versus the devil I don't know. And while Don is most predictably going to be loyal to himself and cover his own derriere, he has loyalty to me, too. More so than the other ladies at the dance.
I need to choreograph the dance. And I need to know the dance so well I can dance it gracefully under pressure.
Time to put on my dancing shoes.
She tells me that this is an opportunity. With Scott in my past and the horizon stretched out in front of me, why stay in a crap job where I spend half the day banging my head against the wall and the other half apologizing for the noise?
She is fearless. That's why we were great cooks sharing the same kitchen. She motivates me out of my sniveling, shriveling, down-trodden self and gives me a glove so I can get in the game. reminds me how much smarter I am than any of them. I am a behemoth. I need to start thinking like one.
By the time I get home, I am back in the saddle. I call Charlotte to tell her the news. Tell her not to put on her super hero cape just yet. I am going to make lemonade from the lemons I was just pelted with and throw in a splash of Jack Daniels for fun.
Don is right. I have a decision to make. But not the one he thinks I have to make. It is not a Should I Stay or Should I Go moment so artfully described by the classic Kinks tune. They had it right, though. "If I go there will be trouble. An' if I stay it will be double." (Not the pinnacle of creative writing but they nailed it here.)
No. I know I need to leave. What I need to figure out is how and when. I need a plan. I need it to work. I need to turn the tables and outsmart the fox, even though I am not entirely sure who the fox is at the moment.
The only thing I am sure of is this: I would rather dance with the devil I know versus the devil I don't know. And while Don is most predictably going to be loyal to himself and cover his own derriere, he has loyalty to me, too. More so than the other ladies at the dance.
I need to choreograph the dance. And I need to know the dance so well I can dance it gracefully under pressure.
Time to put on my dancing shoes.
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